Crying Over Spilt Milk
by Kyuunen
Summary: Under some circumstances, it's perfectly alright to cry over spilt milk. But who will come along to help you clean the mess? shounenai, waffmuffin, MxR


Here's a little ficlet to get the ball rolling again. My second hand at writing TeniPuri, but hopefully not my last.

Warnings: Shounen-ai, general waffiness, and a triple combination Sick!Pitiful!Submissive!Ryoma.

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Crying Over Spilt Milk by KyuuketsukiShounen

Ryoma felt his forehead. It was burning up, just like it was about an hour ago. The feel of his ice-cold hand to his head felt as though he had pounded upon his skull with a tennis racket. The shock of it made a chill run down his back and this minutest of actions awoke all the old aches in his body he had forgotten about. His pulse thumped dully in the back of his mind, unable to be heard over the haze of sickness.

Such a waste of a holiday vacation, but Ryoma couldn't think of that right now. All he had in his mind was a foggy vision of his pain. The sound of rain pattered constantly upon his window like skittering mice across the floor. His throat felt dry and irritated and he was so cold.

Ryoma couldn't stand it any longer and he struggled to leave his bed. He laboriously stumbled to his feet, swaddled in a mountain of blankets. He opened the fridge and an icy breeze greeted him. The light seemed too strong and sickly, and combined with the unhealthy temperature it made Ryoma want to double over and groan, sick and weak. But he steeled himself and reached inside.

He felt around for the bottle of milk and lugged it over to the counter. His hands shook as they handled the cool glass, which felt cold enough in his grasp to be made out of ice. He thanked whatever kind spirit there ever was that someone had left a clean mug out on the table for him, so that he wouldn't have to quest for one in the cupboards.

He poured the milk into the mug and into the microwave it went. He set the timer for a minute and the deep electronic humming gave Ryoma the urge to cover his ears and crouch against the wall, the sound too loud and strong. With a deafening beep the milk was done and heated. He took it from the microwave and made his way to the kitchen table without too much trouble, save for the muffled throb that echoed in his mind with each step of his socked feet on the cold tiled floor.

He whimpered as he fell into his seat, the sudden vertigo it gave him overwhelmed when he did such an abrupt action as sitting. The blood swished in his head, a dizzying tempest that he didn't want to feel. He put the mug and his elbows on the table and his head into his palms, until the rush subsided.

He lifted a tentative hand and shakily groped for his delicious, warm milk. His hand trembled violently as another chill overtook him and he spilled the ambrosial liquid across the table, dripping into his lap, and onto the floor.

He watched it dribble over the edges of the table, eyes wide in shock and horror. A dampening feeling weighed down into Ryoma's stomach. It was too much. It was too much! He buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

It was so unfair! The aches in his body screamed as his crying brought him into convulsions, but he didn't care anymore. His chest felt so weak and slow as his sluggish lungs tried to handle his weeping. He whined so quietly, unable to form words anymore; he was just so tired.

As he sat there, milk spilling into his lap and tears spilling into his palm, he didn't hear the door open.

"Echizen! You home?" Ryoma didn't notice the familiar crowing voice. He only continued to let his misery drink in the sweet taste of his tears, sitting there at the table.

Ryoma felt a presence come into the room. He peeked between his fingers and caught the figure he recognized, even through his blurred vision. He was scared and embarrassed, but he was too exhausted to care anymore, only sobbing harder.

"Echizen, what's the matter?" Momo pressed, swooping down on Ryoma and putting an arm around him. Ryoma tried to vocalize his thoughts, but all he could do was point at the spilt milk and sound out a strangled whimper.

"Oh, Echizen," Momo muttered under his breath. Momo pulled Ryoma's chair away from the table so that the liquid wouldn't keep falling into his lap. Through his tear-clouded eyes, he watched as Momo searched for paper towels and a sponge, then cleaned up the horrid mess. As Ryoma watched him, he continued to cry, unable to stop himself. When Momo had finished cleaning up, he went to the fridge and made another steaming cup of milk. Then Momo pulled aside another chair to sit in and bundled Ryoma into his arms.

"You alright?" Momo asked. Ryoma tried to respond between his hiccups, but he could only let out a weak cry, a mewling that only made Momo hold him tighter. "I heard you were sick. Didn't realize how bad it'd be." He raised the mug to Ryoma's lips and let him gulp down the warmth. "Don't worry. I'll take care of you."

Ryoma noticed the look on Momo's face, a face unsure as to whether his words were being heard. He gave Momo a worn smile to let him know he was listening. Momo smiled back gently, and raised the mug to Ryoma's mouth again. The tears had slowed down to trickles down Ryoma's face.

"Don't be scared to cry. It's just me," Momo assured Ryoma as he held him in his arms.

Ryoma nodded, but he was done; Momo was there and the tears stopped flowing. For some reason he didn't feel so terrible anymore, just safe and deathly tired. Momo took a tentative hand up to Ryoma's cheek and rested it there, wiping away his tears with his subdued thumb. Ryoma yielded to the comfort and laid into Momo, a slight pink coloring his cheeks. Ryoma felt the lip of the mug press against his own and he swallowed as he felt the heat trickle down his throat. But right then as he lay in Momo's lap, a warmth took hold in his chest that he could never get from a simple drink.

The sensation spread throughout his body, from his heart into his stomach and up into his head, and radiating out through his fingertips. It soothed him and the pain receded into a stifled memory at the back of his mind.

"You're wet! I forgot you spilled on yourself."

Ryoma, still dazed by the delicacy of the moment, allowed himself to be carried. Momo lifted him up, arms around his waist. Ryoma rested his head on Momo's shoulder and wove his arms around Momo's neck. He was set down on his feet, unsteadily as Momo searched his dresser. Ryoma watched his back, the feelings he masked with indifference that he never really could name. Too tired to hold up the crumbling bricks, he let his walls tumble down and he blushed lightly. Momo turned around and saw the pinkish Ryoma and pressed the back of his hand on Ryoma's cheek.

"I should've made you sit down. You're too sick to be standing for very long," Momo chided himself. He awkwardly handed over the clothes. Ryoma took the clothes from Momo's grasp and turned away, facing the wall.

His hands found the hem of his shirt and he pulled it up, slowly. The cool winter air had snuck into the house and it brushed against his bare skin as it was exposed. He shivered and a dizzy spell overcame him. His eyelids fluttered shut for a moment and the floor shook beneath him. He fell back into Momo's arms, panting weakly.

"You don't have to be embarrassed to ask for help," Momo reassured. He sat the younger boy on a chair and dressed him with meticulous care, as if he were a child, playing with a favorite doll. But this doll was real, alive, with warmth and a pulse, and that unexplainable something that made life seem all the more magical and sacred. Momo pulled off clothes, he pulled new ones on, occasionally brushing past the soft skin, sending shivers through Ryoma.

Momo apologized. "I know it's cold. I'm almost done."

He ruffled Ryoma's hair gently and fussed over him, making sure he was warm.

"Let's get you into bed now."

Ryoma was plucked from the chair and into bed. Momo kneeled beside his teammate, smoothing out the blankets and fluffing pillows. Even under all the layers Ryoma shuddered, chills coming upon him. Momo leaned in close, whispering comfort into this sick soul and all Royma could do was wrap limp arms around an unresisting neck. The shaking subsided and they remained together, foreheads pressed together warmly.

"Oh, Ryoma," Momo whispered. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against Ryoma's brows. It seemed only instinct and impulse when his face came lower and lower until their lips pressed together. Ryoma took his last reserves of strength to pull Momo in closer, everything disappearing for that sweet magical moment where reason gives way to happiness. The world spun around, complete circle, and a sweet foreign taste filled Ryoma. But Momo tore apart, cutting the experience short.

"I-I'm. . . I'm sorry! I shouldn't have done that!" Momo rebuked himself, backing away with his eyes reflecting shame. "You're sick and you don't know what you're doing. . . I'm sorry." He got up quickly and went to the bedroom door. "I'll just go."

"Wait!" Ryoma croaked out, sitting up. "I don't want. . . er, I mean," Ryoma staggered in the dark, trying to word out his feelings. He bowed down his head, too abashed to look at Momo so directly. He chose his words carefully, frustrated with how much he wanted to hide. "You don't have to leave. I mean, if you don't want to." Ryoma blushed furiously.

Momo, too, was getting rosy in the cheeks. He looked down at the fragile form, both in slight shock and a kind of wary hope, sure that he would crash and burn. But he didn't.

Ryoma didn't watch Momo, keeping his fuzzy gaze focused on the floor. There was the clink of a hand upon the doorknob and the final and distressing sound a shutting door. Ryoma sighed weakly and hung his head even lower, his eyes beginning to burn and well up. The warmth that had filled him was gone, and all he had left was that sad sallow sickness.

"Don't worry. I won't leave you."

Ryoma startled and he shot his gaze upward. There was Momo. There to watch over him. So he hadn't left, after all.

Ryoma sniffled and rubbed his eyes on his sleeve. Momo watched the action, so childish and innocent it grasped at his soul. And Ryoma was swept into a light embrace, close enough to feel Momo's heart beating, beating fast.

"It's warm," Ryoma murmured softly, as he began to drift off. His eyelids drooped down and the world washed over them, lapping gently against their joined forms. Momo's steady breaths moved liked the ocean and Ryoma was gently cradled into a dream.

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Author's Notes

Well, I'm glad that you, my cherished readers, have decided to actually finish reading one of my fics. It actually started as a short writing exercise and kind of got out of hand. But craziness can be allowed when reason is unreasonable. Try out my other TeniPuri fic, Ice Cream in December (shameless A/N plugging, I know), which is a bit more festive than this fic.

Merry Christmas, readers. Hope your holidays are great.


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